The Stories We Tell
by Argenteus Draco
Summary: 6. Kíli is a father, Fíli tries to be Thorin, and the King Under the Mountain is not amused. A collection of (sometimes very) short stories set after the Battle of Five Armies. AU
1. The Stories We Tell

**The Stories We Tell**

_by Argenteus Draco_

The magic of the Elves is all encompassing. It revitalizes Bilbo, and though he no longer knows if he will make it back over the Misty Mountains, it does make him feel fifty years younger again. But this vision before him is too vivid and close to his memories to be the work of magic alone. Either it is real, Bilbo thinks, or else age has finally caught up with him, and he has passed out of the realm of the living and gone back to visit his old traveling companions.

"Kíli!" he calls, leaning over the balcony to try to get the attention of the dark-haired dwarf in the courtyard below, but without success. His voice hasn't carried over the lilting flute music drifting in from another hall. He tries again. "Kíli!"

"Behind you, Master Burglar."

He turns, surprised, and feels a wide smile break out over his face. Not just Kíli but Fíli too; older, like him, perhaps a little rounder about the middle, but it is unmistakably their playful smiles behind the longer, fuller beards. They come forward to embrace him. It is more a more welcome reunion than he could ever have hoped to find, even in Rivendell.

"We did not expect to see you here for this council," Fíli says, gripping his arm with a strength that Bilbo cannot return. "I'm glad to see that the years have been kind to you."

"Well, you've faired a good deal better than I," Bilbo replies; and then, turning to Kíli, "But who was that young thing I was yelling at down in the courtyard? I really thought it was you. Or you from sixty years ago."

"My son," Kíli tells him proudly. "Orodir."

Bilbo sounds the name out with another smile. "So you stayed with your Elf-maid, then?"

"Aye," Kíli responds. "Haven't been apart a day since. She's here as well."

"It's why I was so eager to bring the lad along," Fíli adds. "Imagine being alone with those two lovesick puppies for the entire journey."

"Puppies?" Kíli feigns outrage. "If Tauriel is likened to any creature, it is a graceful wildcat."

"See what I mean?" Fíli shakes his head sadly. "And you'd speak Elvish all the time, and leave me out."

"You would have had Gimli and Gloin."

"Well sure, but we didn't know we'd be meeting them on the road either. You understand, don't you, Bilbo? I needed someone with sense to talk to."

Kíli makes an exaggerated swing at his brother, which Fíli easily ducks, and Bilbo laughs again. He can imagine it. Frodo makes the same good natured complaints about Sam and Rosie Cotton.

"So Gloin is here, too?" he asks, once the brothers have stopped laughing long enough to be heard. "Just what sort of council is Lord Elrond cooking up?"

"We don't know," Fíli answers. "But if there's a quest to be had, we're ready. I think it's high time for another adventure, don't you?"

* * *

The impromptu party is as merry as the night that the Dwarves of Thorin's company first gathered at Bag End, but after several hours it tires Bilbo to be around so many boisterous people. It takes several attempts to shake off Orodir, who seems especially interested in hearing him tell his version of the quest for Erebor and keeps urging him to try the different ales they have brought with them from the Lonely Mountain, but eventually he is able to slip away to a quiet corner, sit down with his pipe, close his eyes, and think what a lovely ending this will make for his book, Hobbits and Dwarves and Wizard all meeting again in the great Elven city. They have come full circle. Some of them, anyway.

Someone sits down beside him. With great effort, Bilbo opens his eyes to find Kíli leaning back against the wall, one foot tapping the ground in time to the rowdy singing now echoing forth from the fire-lit room beyond.

"Thorin wanted to come, you know," he says suddenly. "Perhaps he would have, if he'd heard you would be here. But I think I understand how he feels." He takes a long sip of his ale and turns his gaze back on the party. From what Bilbo can see and hear, Orodir is now leading the singing — he has a higher, clearer voice than the other Dwarves — and he has perched himself atop a pillar that Bilbo is certain held a ceramic vase earlier that day. Kíli smiles to himself and shakes his head.

"He'll have a wicked headache in the morning," he says. "He's just a lad, doesn't know his tolerance yet, and Fíli encourages him. But he'll have to find another Elf if he needs healing, Tauriel won't do it, not when it's his own fault." He chuckles and takes another sip of his drink. "To be young again, eh?"

"Now that is a toast I'll drink to," Bilbo replies, and then realizes that he doesn't have anything to drink. Kíli passes him the flask and he takes a swig, coughing a little on the sweet, dark brew. He's never favored these cold climate ales, and he tries not to make a face as he hands it back to Kíli, but he can see in the Dwarf's smile that he isn't hiding anything.

"You haven't changed at all," Kíli says. "Aged, sure, but not changed like we have. That's good." He pauses, considering his words. "Truthfully, Bilbo, I do not know if I am ready for another quest. Tauriel and I have talked about lingering here awhile, among her kin, if we can be useful, but otherwise I am happy to return home." He gestures toward the party again. Orodir has finished his song to cheers and friendly laughter, and Merry and Pippin have gotten up to sing their own. Kíli smiles again. "If Fíli goes, I will follow him, of course, but I think it is time to leave the questing to the young beards. Let them have their own adventures."

Bilbo nods thoughtfully. He hasn't thought much about the possibility of another quest; he's had enough of an adventure just getting back to Rivendell. Perhaps Frodo will want to go. It seems a shame to have a quest without a Hobbit as part of the company, for Frodo not to be able to learn, as he did, just how much a Halfling could offer. After all, he would not be the same Hobbit that he is today if it had not been for the quest to Erebor, but he's never considered if returning to the Shire shaped him just as much. But before he can become too lost in his memories, Kíli is laughing again, mostly, it seems, at himself.

"Still," he says, getting to his feet and offering Bilbo a hand up, "no excuse to miss out on a good party. Come, Master Burglar, let us go tell our tales to the young ones, fill them with wanderlust for the journey ahead, whatever it may turn out to be. After all, that's the point of a good story, isn't it? To make someone want to have their own tale worth telling."

"Is it?" Bilbo starts to wave off Kíli's hand, then thinks better and accepts it. "I always thought they were just something that went along with fireworks on midsummer's eve."

"You have been in your Shire too long if you think that." Kíli holds the door open for Bilbo, and as he passes, adds with a laugh, "It's a good thing you came back to Rivendell, Bilbo. You might have forgotten who you are."


	2. Of Uncles and Nephews

**Author's Note: **I did not set out to make this a series. My hand slipped, and I developed an OC. I have no regrets. It makes me so happy to write in this universe that might have been, and so sad to remember that it never will. If you enjoy this world as much as I do, drop a review. Offer me a prompt. Join me on this adventure as I explore that fathers, brothers, leaders, and king that the Dwarves of Erebor could have been.

* * *

The halls of Erebor are finally full. There are times when Fíli misses the quiet awe of those first few days, but they are few and far between. He much prefers the low rumble of a hundred voices in the courts, the squeals and laughter of children running through the gates, the constant thrum echoing up from the mines, like the heartbeat of the mountain. And in the moments that it becomes too much even for him, at least he has the option to retreat to the inner sanctum of the fortress city and the company of his kin — though since the arrival of Kíli's half-Elfling, even those halls are rarely quiet.

He is leaving his mother's chambers when he is nearly bowled over by the child in question. At nine years old, Orodir is already tall enough to barrel head first into Fíli's chest, and running fast enough that the blow momentarily stuns them both.

"Woah there," Fíli says, first to recover. "Where's the dragon?" Orodir scuffs one boot against the floor.

"Sorry, _gwanur en ada nîn_," he murmurs, and makes to run off again. Fíli puts an arm up in his path. This petulant expression is not like his nephew.

"Speaking of dragons, where are the rest of those little beasts you call friends? Weren't you building a kite for the Durin's Day feasts?"

"Yes." Orodir pointedly avoids looking at him; it doesn't sound as though he is lying, but Fíli doesn't think he is telling the whole truth either. "They are at the gates, seeing if it will fly."

He waits a moment to see if Orodir will say more. When he doesn't, Fíli sighs, puts his arm down and steps to the side of the hall."Alright, go on then. But don't let your grandmother catch you running like that."

As he suspected, the suggestion of joining the other children only makes Orodir frown. "I was looking for _ada_," he finally says, and this time Fíli is certain that his nephew is not telling him everything.

"Kíli's on watch with the guard," he says, and Orodir's expression grows even more unhappy. "Come on, then, lad, what's wrong? Why don't you want to play with your friends?"

For a long moment, Orodir does not answer. Then, defeated, he looks up at Fíli, and simply tells him, "I do not think they are my friends."

Most of the time, Orodir reminds him so much of Kíli at that age that Fíli forgets the boy is only half Khazad, and so whenever his nephew meets his gaze with that too-wise expression in his green eyes that is so distinctly Elven, it never fails to send a chill up his spine. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long whistle. Maybe it would be easier to let Kíli be the one to deal with his troubled son, and not being a parent himself he has no idea if he will say the right thing, but Fíli wants to be the sort of uncle to Orodir that Thorin was to him, and Thorin would never have simply passed him off to someone else as if he were a burden.

He moves to a stone bench cut into the wall, and pats the space beside him, inviting Orodir to sit. The boy joins him somewhat reluctantly, swinging his feet nervously back and forth. His toes just barely brush the ground, and Fíli is reminded again how fast the boy is growing, at least physically.

"Do you want to tell me what happened, lad?" he asks. "It's alright if you don't, but I would like to help you if I can."

Orodir is silent for a long moment, then he tells Fíli, "I'm different than the others."

"Of course you're different," he says, trying to keep his tone light. "You're our princeling."

"That's not what I mean." Orodir chews his lip for a moment (a habit he picked up from Kíli) and reaches up to brush his pointed ears — and as soon as he does, shakes his head to knock his dark hair forward again, effectively covering the tips. "I look different. I'm too tall to fit in the little tunnels anymore but I'm too small to work a hammer. I'm too fast for them to keep up with me but if I slow down they laugh at me for walking. I'm still not even starting to grow a beard. And now they've noticed my stupid ears."

At loss for better words — his pointed ears do stand out amongst the Dwarves of Erebor, there's no use denying it — Fíli simply fills the silence by saying, "I thought you liked your ears?"

"They're enormous." Orodir reaches up reflexively again but stops before touching them this time. "So are _nana's_, but you can't tell as much, because her face is longer." He stretches his legs and kicks a stone across the path so that it clatters against the opposite wall. "I wish I looked more like _ada_."

"Come on, you look plenty like your da." Fíli knows that he isn't being particularly comforting, just saying what he is expected to say, and he racks his brain, trying to think what Thorin would tell him, because Thorin would have much better words.

And then, in thinking about his other kin, the answer comes to him. It's so obvious that he almost laughs, but as Thorin seems constantly determined to prove to them all, no one ever sounds wise while laughing.

"Say, Orodir," he says, nudging the sullen lad with his elbow to get his attention, "what color is your da's hair?"

"Black," Orodir answers, obviously confused. "What does that have to do with—?"

"And your grandmother?" Fíli prompts. "What about her?"

"Black."

"And Thorin?"

"Silver."

Fíli bites back a snort. "Before it got that way."

"Black."

"Hm." Fíli strokes his braids for a moment, trying to look thoughtful. "And what color is my hair?"

"Gold," Orodir answers dutifully. Then: "Oh."

"Exactly." He reaches out to ruffle his nephew's raven locks, and Orodir ducks out of the way with a laugh that Fíli echoes before he remembers that he is supposed to be serious. "We've all got something that makes us different. The trick is not letting anyone convince you that's a bad thing."

Orodir gives him a small but heartfelt smile. "Thank you," he says, hopping down off the bench. "That's good advice. I will try to remember it."

"You still want to go find your da?" Fíli asks, getting up himself. Orodir shakes his head. "Then come on. What do you say we head up to the training yards. I don't know much about hammers, but I'll teach you how to throw a knife. Unless you'd rather go play with your friends."

Orodir's eyes widen with excitement at the prospect and he shakes his head enthusiastically, sending his hair flying into his face. "No," he says, "I don't think there is enough wind to fly a kite today anyway."

He tucks the flyaway locks behind his ear, and makes no move to cover it.


	3. The Wedding of Kíli and Tauriel - Part 1

**Author's Note:** By request (as if I needed an excuse), the wedding of Kíli and Tauriel. I had a lot of fun (and took a lot of liberties) in designing the Elvish and Dwarvish wedding traditions. I wanted it to feel familiar, but also as though it could fit into Middle Earth, and I've drawn inspiration from my own heritage as well as from the designs of the Lord of the Rings films.

An additional note on language: I will not claim to be fluent in either Silvan or Neo-Khuzdul, though once again, I had a lot of fun researching it. I've used words in those languages only where I felt they were accurate and necessary, and otherwise wrote in English. The translations are:

_Amrâlimê, Khuzdul, my love._

_A'maelamin, Silvan, my beloved._

(If any of you reading this are fluent, or more fluent than I am, and at any point notice a mistake in my grammar, spelling, or syntax, please do not hesitate to let me know.)

* * *

**The Wedding of Kíli and Tauriel**

**Part One - Preparation**

Kíli had thought that the hardest part of arranging to marry Tauriel would be getting Thorin and Thanduil to both agree to allow it, but those negotiations are nothing compared to the politics of reconciling Elvish and Dwarvish traditions into one ceremony.

"We shall have a few rehearsals," Balin tells him, "to go over the vows and the order of the service and such." Suddenly Kíli regrets asking him to officiate. Balin is a stickler for tradition, and his sense of honor and duty to Thorin and Dís, not to mention Erebor at large, will not allow him to make this occasion anything less than perfect.

"I don't see why we need to rehearse it." Kíli drags a finger through the fine dust settled on the table, practicing the Tengwar characters of Tauriel's name. In the next few days, he will engrave them onto a delicate ring for her, since this is what Elves exchange to symbolize their vows, and although he is not a jeweler himself, he does not trust this last detail to any other Dwarf. "They're just vows."

"Ah, and I suppose you've become a Khuzdul scholar since we've settled in." Balin gives Kíli a stern stare over the contract he is finalizing; Thranduil has sent it back four times already, over disagreements in wording. "This would be an awfully embarrassing occasion to forget your syntax, lad, and you still mostly speak it in the dialect of the Blue Mountains."

Appropriately chastised, Kíli stops drawing and sighs. "I will practice," he says. "And I'll help Tauriel with the pronunciations."

"That is absolutely out of the question," Thorin growls, speaking up for the first time since they'd sat down to start discussing arrangements. "Traditions be damned, Balin, we'll be doing that part in Westron anyway."

"I can learn it!" Kíli insists. "And so can she!"

"This isn't about either of you, it's about the hundred or so others of her kin who will be in attendance." Thorin runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair distractedly, and his next words are somewhat softer. "There are a lot of laws that I am willing to bend for you lad, even a few I would break, but that is not one of them."

Kíli chews his lip for a moment, wondering if he should tell his uncle that Tauriel is already starting to learn some Khuzdul simply by nature of hearing it spoken. She surprises him nearly every day with a new word or phrase, and though her accent is, at times, atrocious, he is fairly certain that she is becoming fluent in the Dwarves' secret language faster than he is.

"Then the last thing we need to discuss," Balin says, bringing Kíli sharply out of his thoughts and back to the present company, "is your bridal gift. Or are you considering those rings to fulfill that part?"

"No," Kíli answers, "a single ring wouldn't be wealth enough, even Fíli would laugh at me."

"It is a fine thing you've designed for her, lad." Balin is obviously trying to make him feel better about not already having this completed. Most Dwarves who plan to marry complete their gift long before they even have a Dwarrowdam in mind, and with only two weeks to go before the ceremonies, Kíli is running out of time to make any of the traditional crafts. "And as long as you have a hand in it's making, technically it can qualify."

Kíli hesitates for a moment, then blurts out, "I did have one idea, but I have no idea how I would go about executing it."

"Alright, let's hear it then."

Kíli glances between his uncle and Balin and back, then outlines his plan. Thorin nods approvingly.

"It's a grand scheme, to be sure. But if you can make it work, I shall of course give you what you need."

"You should talk to Bofur," Balin adds. Kíli turns to him with raised eyebrows.

"Bofur?" he asks. "Why?"

"Because he is a toy maker, and it's made him quite clever with mirrors."

#

There are nights when Kíli wakes in a tangled pile of sweat-soaked bedding, from nightmares where he is back on Ravenhill, but his arrow does not strike the pale orc in time to save his brother's life; or else he in the wrong place entirely, in a tunnel far below while Fíli is dangled off the edge above him. He closes his eyes, the hiss of Black Speech echoing inside his head, and when he opens them again it is to the sight of his brother's lifeless body, blue eyes cold and staring, almost accusing, calling out to Kíli against his better sense to be avenged. These are the nights he goes to Tauriel. She understands him better than the others. It's unusual for Dwarves to have dreams like these, especially recurring ones. When he confides to Fíli about them, his brother simply laughs (which does make him feel better, in it's own way) and tells him that he is spending too much time among the Elves, that their magic is affecting him.

Tauriel's small room is sparser than most in Erebor. There is a desk with a few books in one corner, and windows leading to shafts cut into the walls high above, designed to let in what little natural light can be found inside the mountain. Her weapons are hung neatly on the far wall, and a single silk tapestry covers the bed. She is frequently awake, regardless of the late hour, but tonight she is stretched languidly on the mattress, looking for all the world like she is asleep, except that her green eyes are open and alert. She pushes herself up on one arm to better look at him.

"I thought you were on guard tonight," she says, as he makes his way across the room to her. Her eyes roam his body, taking in his loose tunic and bare feet, and she smiles, shifting on the bed to make room for him. "Obviously I was mistaken. Were you having dreams again?"

"No," he answers, climbing up beside her. "I mean, yes, I did, but that's not the trouble." He tries to explain about his meeting with Balin and Thorin, and the newest complications, without giving too much away. She frowns at the mention of a bridal gift.

"You do not have to buy my love with gems," she tells him, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. "You have always had it."

"I know that. But I'm expected to. And I do want to," he adds hastily, not wanting her to misinterpret his first excuse. He sighs and settles his head into the crook of her arm. "It's just… the more I find out we have to do, the more tempted I am to run off with you on the next caravan that comes to Erebor, and get married far away from here."

She laughs lightly and settles back against the mattress herself. "Then it is a good thing no caravans are due until after winter," she tells him. "Though I won't say I'm not tempted by the idea."

"We could have a nice simple wedding somewhere like the Shire," he murmurs sleepily. "I bet Hobbits know how to throw a good party for something like that. Bilbo certainly did."

#

The day before the wedding is to take place, Tauriel disappears, going into seclusion with the women of her people. This is not a surprise to Kíli, but her absence does make him somewhat anxious. There was no one, though, who had expected his mother to go with her.

"I don't get it," Kíli mutters, pacing across the sitting room. "She doesn't even like Tauriel."

"I don't think that has anything to do with it." Thorin is just as perplexed as the rest of them, but at least somewhat calmer about it, having spoken to his sister before her departure. "Her exact words were, 'I won't leave any future daughter of mine alone with a bunch of Elves.'"

"But Tauriel _is_ an Elf."

"That's what I said." Thorin reaches out and grabs Kíli's arm, forcing him to stop walking and meet his uncle's gaze. "Don't try to make sense of it, lad. Women will always speak a different language than the rest of us. Get your mind off it. Go finish your gift."

#

They have done everything they can to bring Kíli's plan to fruition, he has checked and triple checked every measurement, every angle… but this is beyond any of their control. Kíli glances at the sky, full of roiling clouds, and lets loose a colorful string of Khuzdul swears.

"It's a good thing you settled on having the ceremony underground," Bofur, ever the optimist, says, following Kíli's gaze. "Imagine having an Elvish wedding with this storm blowing in. Didn't they want to have you two standing in a clearing in the forest? Don't see how they can do it."

"Elves are always married in the light of the full moon," Kíli explains. "If you put off your ceremony for rain you'd have to wait another month. I think if I had to wait another day with these nerves I'd go mad, never mind four whole weeks."

"Well, it's definitely a full moon," Bofur replies. "Somewhere up there."

Kíli sighs and lifts a hand to run it through his hair until Fíli slaps it away.

"Stop that," he says. "You're going to mess up your braids, and mother is going to have my head if you don't look as perfect as your She-Elf." He too glances up at the sky, and claps Kíli on the back with a joking smile. "Maybe you'll get lucky and they'll get caught in the rain coming in. Mahal, but I'd love to see the Elvenking show up to your wedding with his pretty hair all mussed and mud on his robes. He'd never hear the end of it, not from three generations of Dwarves."

Kíli tries to laugh at his brother's joke, but finds that his throat is too tight. He lowers his gaze from the sky to the horizon, and as if on queue sees a host of tall, graceful beings appear over the crest of the hill, making their way towards Erebor. They carry lanterns that glow with a soft, blue-white light, and their voices are raised in whispering song that still manages to carry across the plain. Somewhere in the middle of that procession, Tauriel is veiled in silver lace, walking under a canopy of green silk, hidden from all eyes until she will come to stand before Kíli. His mouth goes dry.

A flash of lightning illuminates the landscape, throwing everything into sharp relief. Kíli mutters another choice phrase he learned from Thorin. This isn't the kind of light he'd planned on having.

"You never know," Bofur says, unfazed by Kíli's language. "It's coming in pretty fast, might blow over by the time we actually finish the ceremony."

Kíli doesn't respond. Fíli shakes his head, grabs his brother by the shoulders, and turns him forcibly back toward the passage into the mountain.

"Come on then, lover boy," he says, pushing his brother forward. "You've got to be down there before that procession gets in, and you just had to pick a chamber that's part of the mines, didn't you?"

"I swear it will make sense before the night's over." Before Fíli can drag him off the ledge, Kíli twists around to look at the sky one last time. A single boom of thunder rolls across the plain. He grimaces. This is not going as he planned at all. "At least, I hope it will."


	4. The Wedding of Kíli and Tauriel - Part 2

**The Wedding of Kíli and Tauriel**

**Part Two - Ceremony**

The sight of her sends shivers down Kíli's spine and steals all the breath from his lungs.

Like the night in Laketown when he saw her through the veil of a fever dream, she is practically glowing. It turns the gray silk dress, painted to be reminiscent of birch trees, almost white, turns her skin a warm, rosy hue and her auburn hair into a river of rippling copper, dotted with gold beads, and makes her eyes shine as she smiles down at him. He reaches for her hand, to reassure himself that this vision before him is real, and this time she interlaces her fingers with his.

Someone nudges his boot with their foot. "Are you planning to gape up at her like that all night," Legolas asks, the barest hint of mockery in his voice, "or shall I get you a box?"

Kíli is prepared to make a snide reply of his own, but his mother beats him to it. "I warned you, Elfling," she snaps, just loud enough for the wedding party to hear, without her voice carrying to the rest of the assembled crowd, "about making any more jokes about our height."

Now it is Tauriel's turn to nudge Legolas away, and he graces Kíli with one last good natured smirk before falling back to stand behind her, beside his father. She shakes her head and turns back to Kíli, her eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

Balin clears his throat to get their attention, and then says to Kíli. "In your own time then, lad."

He takes a breath and swallows to steady his voice, then looks up at his bride again. "Tauriel," he says, taking her hands in both of his, "my sword and my bow are yours. I will defend you to my last breath." The words of the ancient vows do not sound the same in the Common Speech, like they fall too quickly from his tongue, but he tries to convey the conviction and the depth of meaning they would have in Khuzdul in the way he gently squeezes her fingers. Satisfied, Balin turns and nods to Tauriel.

"Kíli," she says, voice soft and lilting. "My sword and my bow are yours." There is scattered snickering among some of the Dwarves, especially the other members of the company — Fíli actually laughs aloud until Thorin elbows him — but Tauriel continues undeterred. "I will defend you to my last breath."

Kíli must hold back an embarrassed laugh himself, and he looks down at his feet until he can collect himself enough to look at Tauriel again and murmur quietly, "Those are not you lines."

Her answering smile is alight with both mischief and love. "They are my promise anyway."

He grins impishly back at her, and on a whim, replies in Khuzdul with a modified version of what should have been her answering vow. "_Amrâlimê,_ we are blessed to defend each other, to build our lives together, and I shall love you until the day I leave this world, and forever after."

Balin shakes his head and sighs. "Why did we bother rehearsing," he mutters to Thorin, "if they weren't going to listen anyway?"

Apparently he was loud enough that Thranduil could hear, because the Elvenking adds, "This is what happens when you allow children to marry."

Kíli turns to his uncle and Balin and tries to smile at them too, to show that he means no disrespect, but when he catches Thorin's eye he sees that they have ignored Thranduil completely, he is just waiting for Kíli to determine what course they shall take now. A new wave of nerves washes over him. This is the part they have not been able to rehearse with Tauriel present. This is the part he will have only one chance to get right, or else he can fall back on calling the ring his bridal gift.

He glances at Tauriel, sees her expectant and curious expression, turns back to the others, and nods.

"Put out the torches!" Thorin calls.

Immediately, and excited buzz arises in the crowd as Dwarves begin to whisper to one another. "_What sort of gift requires darkness?" "Perhaps it's straight from the forges, that would make quite a show." "Maybe it glows like the Arkenstone."_ One by one, the torches are extinguished, until only the Elvish lamps remain for light.

"Those too," Thorin barks, and a few Elves hesitate to follow the order — one or two do, but most are unwilling be put in the position of being in the dark under the mountain.

The idea even seems to shake Thranduil, and his eyes flash with outrage. "You would dare command my people?"

"It is a request." Thorin's expression gives nothing away, but there is an undertone to his words that suggests some history behind them. "One king to another."

Thranduil says nothing, so Legolas raises a hand and says something in Elvish. Just before the lamps go out, Kíli catches his eye and mouths "Thank you."

The chamber is plunged into total darkness, and silence. Kíli squeezes Tauriel's fingers again, and waits. For a long, tense moment, there is nothing but the whisper of her breath, and the pounding of his own heart against his chest, and then…

Somewhere far above them, a cloud shifts, and a beam of silver moonlight hits the mirror at the mouth of the cave, reflecting it down to another at the top of an airshaft, and from there to a third at the roof of the cavern. The curved wall behind and above Kíli is suddenly illuminated, and the purpose of using an old diamond mine for the ceremony becomes clear. Thousands of glittering gems, too small to have been worth extracting in the days of Thrór, twinkle like stars in the night sky. There is a collective intake of breath at the sight; even the Dwarves, who may not understand the significance it holds for them, seem impressed by his work.

"Do you like it?" he whispers. His eyes have adjusted enough now to be able to make out her face, and her eyes widen incredulously that he would even have to ask.

"Like it?" She seems torn between amazement and laughter. "Kíli, this is… it's…"

"It's less than you deserve, I know," he says quickly. "But it's the closest I could come to starlight down here."

He half expects her to argue him, she usually does when he makes her out to be something more than he is, like she has stepped out of a legend, but for once she doesn't protest. She just looks down at him, and smiles, and says simply, "It's beautiful."

A new cloud blows in and covers the moon, and the light fades. Thorin strikes a fire starter and rekindles the nearest lamp, then passes it to Fíli to begin relighting the rest.

"Well done, lad," Balin tells Kíli. "Alright, you may exchange your rings, and kiss your bride."

Kíli fishes the ring from his pocket and, fumbling more than he'd like to admit, takes Tauriel's extended hand. Although he's tried to incorporate both Elven and Dwarvish design, it is clear as soon as he places it on her long, slender finger that there is more of the latter, and it seems brash and somewhat out of place — but so does the delicate band of woven gold that she gives to him. The same thought seems to have occurred to her, and she laughs before swooping down to kiss him — at the same time that he stretches up onto his toes thinking to... Well, he isn't sure exactly what he means to do after that, he hasn't made himself that much taller, but it's just enough for her to grab his shoulders instead of his face, and knock him off balance, causing them both to fall over since he's still holding her hands.

The rest of the hall looks on in a combination of shocked and mortified silence as they tumble to the ground, still laughing, still holding each other. Even Thorin breaks his stoic facade to pinch the bridge of his nose and mutter "Mahal help us," as he looks down at his nephew, but Kíli doesn't hear. In that moment, all he cares about is Tauriel's musical laughter, her arms wrapped around him, the soft strands of her hair brushing his face.

This, he thinks, as he pushes her coppery locks away so that he can finally kiss his wife (his _wife_; the word echoes in his head and makes his smile even wider), this is bliss.

#

The ceremony may have had a strong Elvish influence, but the feast that follows is entirely Dwarven. It goes on for hours — it is difficult to tell how many in the steady light of the underground halls — and becomes a truly riotous affair with toasts and songs breaking out one after (or sometimes over) another, to the point where Kíli cannot even hear most of them. At first the Elves keep to themselves, looking concerned and somewhat repulsed by the raucous festivities and only picking at the magnificent spread of food, but the more wine is passed around the more they loosen ranks, and Balin has ensured that plenty of wine was delivered from Laketown.

Kíli pushes a glass toward Tauriel, who has had nothing resembling a celebratory drink all night. She smiles at him but doesn't touch it. "I want to remember tonight," she says, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the party. "I do not want these memories dulled by drink, not even a little."

Her words make him pause with his ale halfway to his lips; there is something in her tone that suggests that, while she is speaking the truth, it is not the whole truth. He has always had trouble with the circular talk of Elves, and it doesn't help that his head is already spinning somewhat, but it has been doing that since Fíli helped him off the floor of the cavern. He doesn't think it is the drink, just the vision of Tauriel sitting beside him, her loose hair flowing over her shoulders, her hand warm as she places it over his.

"You are staring again," she says, to the profound amusement of every Dwarf within earshot — which is, very fortunately, only the original company at that moment. Dwalin especially has been having a good laugh at Kíli's expense, and has recounted the story of the dinner in Rivendell and Kíli's inability to distinguish Elf-maid from man no less than three times already. He tosses a dinner roll at the older Dwarf, who dodges it easily and makes to return the gesture with a sticky pastry, but before he can Fíli gets up onto the table between them, starting a rousing chorus of a favorite drinking song. The lyrics make Tauriel blush in a most attractive fashion, and Kíli has a sudden and irrational desire to stand up on the table himself, to shout at them all to leave so that he can be alone with her.

As if guessing his thoughts, Tauriel catches his eye, and in a single glance conveys perfectly what she still cannot bring herself to say aloud — at least, not in company. A question hesitating in her gaze, her green eyes flick briefly toward the nearest door, and he nods almost imperceptibly and grasps her hand under the table. They slip away as Fíli's song reaches an echoing crescendo (and a particularly suggestive verse) and she leads him on a wild, free spirited chase through the empty halls of Erebor.

#

Daylight is streaming into the cavern when Kíli opens his eyes, not so harsh as being directly in the path of the winter sun, just warm and inviting. He sighs contentedly, his head nestled in Tauriel's lap, enjoying the gentle touch of her fingers as she smoothes his hair back from his face.

"So you really do like it?" he asks. "Because it's ours, this place. Thorin says they won't mine it, not ever."

"Never?" she asks in reply. "That seems a hard promise to keep."

"Well, his exact words were 'as long as one of us lives,' but he may have forgotten that you're immortal…" he trails off, and she chuckles at his joke.

"It is perfect. Far more so than jewels." She runs her fingers through his hair again, and then looks up at the source of the reflected light. "I wonder if it is enough to encourage plants to grow."

Kíli shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "But we can try. Anything you want, _Amrâlimê_."

"You cannot see it?"

He closes his eyes, trying to picture the cavern flushed with grass and flowers like a meadow, and though the idea makes him laugh, he loves that she loves it. "No," he admits. "I understand metal and stone, but growing things… you'll have to teach me that."

"I will do my best. We could bring in mosses from the forest, see if they will take. Perhaps some climbing ivys." She leans over and kisses him softly, and her voice takes on an etherial, almost conspiratorial tone. "Can you see it better now, _A'maelamin_? Something soft underfoot… a little Elfling playing in the light…"

His heart skips a beat. This is the first they have ever talked of children. He smiles to himself. "Of course," he says. "One day." And then, trying not to sound too hopeful, he adds, "Maybe… one day soon."

He means that they will talk about it soon, and she makes a soft, agreeable noise before replying, "Maybe sooner than you think."

He opens his eyes, sees her bright, knowing smile, and sits up so fast that he forgets she is leaning over him, and knocks his forehead against hers. "Ow! Sorry! Wait, Tauriel, do you mean to say that— that you're…"

She does not answer him with words, only settles him in front of her again and places his hands against her stomach. A faint movement flutters under his palm once, twice… He looks up at his wife, unable to find words in Westron or Khuzdul to express the emotions coursing through him, emotions he has never even thought to name until this moment; perhaps they exist in Elvish, but he does not know them.

Finally, he settles on the one word that he knows she will always understand to mean all that he wishes to say. "_Amrâlimê_," he whispers, before pressing his lips against hers and wrapping his arms around her in a fierce, passionate embrace. "_Amrâlimê_."


	5. Buttons

**Author's Note on Language:** Oh, did I have fun looking up words and phrases for little Orodir. I'm afraid he hasn't really separated the differences between Sindarin and Khuzdul yet, but he'll get there as he gets older, I'm sure.

The necessary translations are as follows:

**Khuzdul**: _kemthêl_, songs of all songs; _aradî_, elements (parts) of (the) mountain; _kamithî_, fragments (tiny parts) of (the) song; _Emad_: E-, higher meaning, _amad_, mother

**Sindarin**: _ada_, father; _gollo_, cloak like cloth; _en_, look; _amin utue ta_, I found it

As usual, I'm sure something is wrong with my grammar somewhere. But little Orodir is three; I'm sure his grammar isn't that great either.

* * *

**Buttons**

_by Argenteus Draco_

The first thing that Kíli learns about children is that they are curious. The second thing he learns about children is that they are fast. The third thing he learns is that if they are quiet, something is probably very, very wrong.

He knows these things, but he doesn't really understand them until they all converge in a single moment, when he suddenly realizes that Orodir, who had been sitting at his feet while he shared an ale or three with Fíli, has abandoned his blocks and, essentially, disappeared. He blinks, and looks at his brother.

"Did... Tauriel come in for him?" he asks hopefully. Fíli, who is on his fourth pint himself, thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. Kíli swears loudly.

"Shh!" Fíli gestures at the half-open door to his bedroom. "He probably just went to look for another toy, you keep leaving things in here. You don't want to be teaching him new words. At least, not that kind. Tauriel will kill you."

"I'll blame you if he repeats it," Kíli growls, getting to his feet and tapping on the open door. "Orodir?" he calls. "You in here, lad?"

No response. He pushes the bedroom door open and swears again.

"Not there?" A note of concern creeps into Fíli's voice as well. As one, they both turn toward the other door, the one that opens into the halls that lead, in one direction, to the rest of the royal suite, and in the other, to rooms that are still being cleaned out from before the Desolation. Normally Kíli doesn't worry about that door; it isn't quite the invisible-when-closed, ancient-magic, completely-sealed-once-shut type like the main gate or the hidden passage, but it is still Dwarf craftsmanship, metal handles and solid, heavy stone. Too heavy for his three-year-old child to move.

It is ajar.

Kíli rounds on his brother. "You left it open?!"

"You left it open!" Fíli points an accusing finger at Kíli's chest. "You followed me in!"

Having run out of appropriate Khuzdul phrases, Kíli calls his brother and himself a few choice words in Sindarin and drags a hand through his hair distractedly. Obviously (and, Kíli thinks, thankfully) not understanding his Elvish, Fíli puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, he was chattering up a storm not ten minutes ago," he says encouragingly. "He can't have gotten far. We'll find him before he gets himself into trouble."

At the word trouble, Kíli thinks about the month prior, when they had still been in Mirkwood, and Orodir had disappeared ten feet up into the branches of a large oak tree, only to eventually come down covered in sticky spider silk. He turns a shade paler. Fíli nudges him forward.

"Hey, he's your son. Are you going to help, or what?"

Kíli shakes himself from his sense of impending panic and follows Fíli to the hall. They pull the door fully open and look down either side of the corridor. "Which way do you think he went?"

Fíli considers the choice for a moment. Then he sighs, grabs a torch from the wall, and starts down the lesser traveled route. "He's your son," he says again. "He will undoubtedly have gone where we don't want him to."

#

In Mirkwood, _amad_ talked to him about listening to the sounds of the forest, the whispering melody of wind in the leaves, the quiet murmur of streams running to meet the river, the gentle beat of acorns falling to the moss-covered ground. She told him that one day he would learn to understand the songs of the trees, and to sing to them in reply. He didn't understand her then, doesn't hear songs in the woods, but sometimes, when he puts his hands against the cool stone walls of Erebor, he thinks that he can hear a low thrum from deep inside the mountain, and maybe it is sort of the same thing.

"_Kemthêl_," Orodir sing-songs tunelessly to himself as he walks. "_Kamithî'aradî_."

It doesn't occur to him at first that it's grown dark; although he is used to the lantern and torch lit passages of Erebor's inhabited halls, his eyes adjust well enough, and he keeps one hand on the stone as he walks, following it until he finds another empty fissure. He isn't afraid as he turns into the new, darker room. It doesn't matter that it's cold, or that it still smells a bit stale from the thick layer of ancient dust, the stone under his hand and beneath his feet feels just like the rest of the fortress city. Erebor is safety, comfort, home. He isn't afraid of anything inside the mountain.

The rooms are set up much like the others he is familiar with, and he can find his way from the empty outer to the cluttered and more interesting inner by feel if not by sight. The stone foundations of a bed sit in one corner, the wooden frame rotted and broken, and at the foot of the bed, a metal trunk etched and embossed with traditional Dwarven designs. It looks like his toy chest. He makes his way to the trunk and, with some protest from the rusting hinges, throws the top open.

He wipes his dust covered hands on his shirt to clean them and stands on his tip-toes to peer inside. The box is not full of toys but of blankets. He frowns and pushes them aside, digging to the bottom of the trunk, and his fingers brush against something encrusted with jewels.

"Orodir?" The voice drifts in from the hall outside and makes him smile. "Orodir, are you down here?"

He wraps stubby fingers around his prize and drags it and the long purple cloth it is attached to out of the trunk, examines it briefly, lets the trunk fall closed with a thump, and trundles back toward the hall. "_Ada_!"

His father meets him at the doorway and promptly scoops him up off the floor. Orodir grins. Too often lately his father has been telling him he's too big to be carried.

"_Ada_, look!" he says proudly. "_Gollo_!"

But his father isn't listening. "Oh, thank Mahal you're safe," he mutters, smoothing Orodir's hair back from his forehead. "What's all over your shirt?"

He shoves the jewel-studded clasp in his father's face. "_En_!"

"What's this?"

His uncle Fíli comes over with the torch and lifts the corner of the fabric for closer inspection. Orodir immediately snatches it back and balls the whole thing up to his chest. "_Amin utue ta_! I found it. _Amin_!"

"Yes, fine," his father says distractedly, trying to push his hands away without dropping him, "but what is it?"

"Mine!"

Fíli snorts laughter, making Orodir muster up his best glare and his uncle laugh louder in turn. His father rolls his eyes and sighs. "All right. Come on," he says, turning away from the abandoned room and starting back up the hall. "Let's get you cleaned up before your mother sees you."

"Up," Orodir orders.

"You are up."

"Up!"

His father sighs fondly again, and lifts Orodir so that he is sitting astride his shoulders. Orodir laughs happily at his compliance, and after a moment his father starts to laugh too— at least until they both catch sight of a tall, thin figure standing at the edge of the lantern light. Even from this distance, Orodir can tell his mother is unhappy. "Trouble?" he asks, leaning over his father's head to try to look at him, but only succeeding in making him nearly loose his balance. Even Fíli looks somewhat nervous.

"Yes," his father answers, straightening up slowly. "We are definitely in trouble."

#

Orodir allows himself to be separated from the bundle he pulled from the old room just long enough for Kíli to inspect it. It is, in fact, a child's coat, but for a child bigger than Orodir, so it fits him more like a cloak. Not that this bothers the toddler. He parades around their living quarters with it wrapped around his shoulders, and even insists on wearing it up to dinner the next day (which is something of a relief, since it means that Tauriel can finally send his other favorite coat to be properly washed and rid of several stubborn grass stains). He is especially fond of the jeweled buttons and clasp at the neck, and soon has made a game out of reflecting light off them and onto the walls and floor. It proves to be a good distraction for him. When it looks like Orodir is approaching a tantrum, Kíli simply reminds him of the little gems at his wrist and throat, trying to make him laugh instead.

He's getting close to one now, twisting away from Tauriel as she attempts to fill his plate with a steamed green vegetable that Kíli hasn't even bothered to identify. He tries to catch her eye to see if she needs him to intervene, but she shakes her head. She has much more patience for their picky child than he does, and more patience than Orodir too, so she usually wins.

"They're good for you," she says encouragingly.

"No." Orodir shoves the plate away. Kíli puts a few potatoes on it and slides it gently back.

"They're very tasty," she says, passing the bowl of greens to Kíli. "Look, your father's going to eat some—"

"No I'm not—"

She turns a fierce glare on him before he can even finish the last word. Kíli dutifully puts a small helping of the greens (he sniffs and makes a face; probably cabbage) on his plate and silently contemplates ways to slip them into his napkin without Tauriel or Orodir noticing.

"Go on," Tauriel says, looking at Orodir but clearly talking to both of them. "Just try them."

"_Emad_!" Orodir shrieks, trying a distraction of his own. "_Emad_, come see!" He waves his wide sleeves to get Dís' attention as she enters the dining hall, nearly dragging them through his dinner. Kíli waits for the inevitable scolding from his mother ("You found that where? And put it on your child without having it properly laundered?") and furrows his brow when it never comes.

"_Emad_?" It's a question now, and spoken in the plaintive tone that Orodir usually gets when he thinks he's in trouble, right before he cries. Before Kíli or Tauriel can stop him, he wiggles out of his seat, slides under the table, and rushes to Dís, nearly tripping on the purple coat's too-long hem. He grabs her leg and stares up at her, green eyes wide. "_Emad_ sad?"

She doesn't answer him at first, just fingers the collar of the coat, looking like she's seen a ghost, and finally turns a sharp gaze on Kíli. "Where did you find this?"

"In a trunk in one of the old rooms," he answers. Then, as Orodir continues to tug on her skirts, probably wanting to ask much the same question: "What is it?"

Her fingers find the jeweled button holding the coat closed, and her lips turn upwards in the smallest of smiles. "This was my brother's."

Kíli looks between his mother and his son, and asks somewhat breathlessly, "This... was Thorin's?"

The Dwarrow in question enters the room just in time to hear Dís reply quietly, "No. Frerin's. Thorin's was blue."

"Yours was red," Thorin adds, his gaze falling to Orodir, who starts to squirm under so much attention, even if it is all family. Dís smiles fondly.

"I wore mine thin in the first years of exile. It wasn't really made for that kind of wear." She bends down and gathers Orodir into her arms to sooth him; he clings to her even when she straightens up, so she is forced to lift him, and promptly buries his face in her thick braids. "Not you though, little one. No dragons are going to steal your home from you."

"Mahal, I hope not. I feel like we've only just settled in." Fíli, having apparently only heard the last of the conversation, looks around at the others with confusion. "What's happened, exactly?"

"Orodir has stumbled on something… sentimental," Tauriel says carefully. She has kept her eyes averted, not wanting to intrude on something she must see as private, but she looks up when she feels Dís' gaze on her.

"Aye, sentimental. And very special." With some difficulty in disentangling his fingers from her hair and beard, she hands Orodir back to his mother, who settles him in her lap and starts to slide the coat from his shoulders until Thorin shakes his head emphatically.

"Our mother made those to be worn," he says, "not lie forgotten in an old trunk."

"Not forgotten," Dís tells him solemnly. "But I did think it long since lost. Frankly I'm amazed it's in such good condition still."

"She was an excellent crafter. I'm not so surprised."

Orodir fidgets with the buttons, and a bit of torchlight catches on the ruby and sapphire chips, sending blue and red flares dancing over Dís' nose. Tauriel puts her fingers over his to still them, and turns the button gently. "Your mother made these?" she prompts.

"The coats," Thorin explains. "Our father made the buttons."

Dís puts a hand on Thorin's shoulder. He squeezes her fingers briefly, and then reaches across the table to ruffle Orodir's hair affectionately before pulling out the bench next to Kíli and beginning to fill his plate. Fíli pulls out the chair on his brother's other side. Dís takes the seat next to Tauriel. Orodir gamely tries one of the round vegetables, makes a face, and spits it out again into his mother's hand. Tauriel sighs, Kíli laughs, and any remaining tension around the table dissipates into the quiet comfort of being surrounded by close kin.

"Hey," Fíli says after a bit, pointing his fork in his mother's direction. "How come you never made coats for Kíli and me?"

"I might have done," Dís replies off-handedly, "if you'd stayed still long enough to be fitted."

#

The buttons move from coat to coat as Orodir grows. Kíli takes great care with them each time, removing the stitching holding them in place without damaging the fabric underneath, except for the first time, when he lets his mother do it.

Far away, a Hobbit is also salvaging buttons from a waistcoat long since worn too thin to be presentable. He won't get rid of it, it's far too precious. It will go in the trunk with all the other things from his adventure that he is slowly tucking out of sight.

The buttons though… the buttons are still in good condition, though having lost a few in Gollum's cave, he doesn't have a full set anymore. He drops most of them into a sewing basket— he'll find a use for them one day. But he sets two aside to give as a gift. He has a young nephew on the Took side of the family now. It's still far too soon to know what sort of Hobbit four-year-old Peregrin will turn out to be, of course, but the last Bilbo saw him he was dragging a reluctant but laughing Frodo off by the arm to help him catch fireflies.

It isn't exactly a journey over the Misty Mountains, but it's a beginning.


	6. Child of the Mountain

**Author's Note: **A gift from skywalker05, who writes semi-sentience with a particular, wonderful poetry.

* * *

When Thorin received the Arkenstone back from the elven king (twice-false grandfather, king above the forest), he let it drop into the deepest crevice yet discovered, and waited for it to catch miles down.

Orodir feels it there as a clean, dense presence, geometrically perfect, crystal forms branching and branching until they stop, tethered, by the unheard voices of the mountain.

Orodir Half-elven is also tied to the mountain by invisible string, dragged gently, complacently, into its ancient huge halls by the whispers of the rocks. Orodir Heroesson blinks in the daylight near the thrush's door and feels home at his back, home in front of him, Dale in between like a playground. The town is an alien labyrinth too, even though it sits on the roots of the mountain. Nothing in Orodir truly understands the race of Men. They move too fast.

The mountain is just the edge of something. Funny, Orodir thinks sometimes, that the dwarves climb so high to dig so deep: the Lonely Mountain is taller than any Mirkwood tree and lives as slowly. The water that falls on the summit trickles down through diamond caves and bedrock stacks, disappearing into the perennial closeness of the pillars of the world. It isn't dark to the dwarves, just like it isn't dark to the rocks. There are other senses.

It dawns on him slowly, and through no particular interaction, that not everyone feels the mountain watching like he does. His father talks of the nobility of their kings, of the age and weight of the halls. His father builds, although not with the focus and tenacity of the smiths (he is a guardsman after all, and prone to looking at the woods), and so Orodir thinks he understands.

His mother looks for light; she tracks the sun that comes in through the slanted, mirrored windows. Maybe that is why elves live so long, he thinks. So that they can watch the world slowly creaking as it goes, the mineral deposits layering on top of themselves. The mountain constantly groans.

Years and years, the Lonely Mountain says.

Orodir has inherited his mother's quickness and her sharp gaze, but he focuses more closely. His eye is drawn to the blue and green flecks embedded in silver quartz strands in the granite. When she stands outside she always looks at the sky. He looks there too, thinking of stars and eagles, but under his feet he feels the mudstone. The mountain moves so slowly, pouring itself into the valley over many lifetimes of elves and dwarves alike, advancing like an army.

Ore and blood, the Lonely Mountain says.

There are other days for him where the the stars are louder than the mountain. He sleeps in the mountain, though, in a bunk carved out of granite. There is a shale plate just above his eyes, deeply cracked around the edges where his father set the valley stone into the mountain. Small gray scratches are the outline of a shallow fossil. He follows the lines of the ribs at night, squinting to turn them into nonsense runes - maybe the stark **X** here, maybe the **M** pointing toward his feet.

When he sleeps his mind drifts along the fissures. He knows where the gold waits in its veins, and half asleep follows the tiny soft strands into the deep until he awakens with a jolt, wondering whether this is what dragon sickness feels like.

(The mountain was called Lonely, because its caretakers had been driven away. The dragon was just another point of heat, just a furnace inside bone and skin as a presage to the deeper rocks. The pressure in the mountain's heart had not felt Smaug's weight, and, cocooned by the strata and the sediment, neither had Orodir.)


	7. Little Tales

**i. Crash**

"Tauriel," an unamused looking Thorin says slowly, pushing a soot-covered Orodir toward his mother, "perhaps you would care to explain to your son that the rail carts in the mines are not toys. In fact—" he steps to the side to reveal a sheepish looking Kíli who had been all but hiding behind him — "perhaps you could explain it to my nephew as well."

**ii. Dim**

Light in the mountain is scarce, but Tauriel knew it would be. It only makes the little there is — streaming in from high windows, or reflected from torches into thick veins of gold and silver revealed in the rock — all the more beautiful.

**iii. Futile**

"I didn't say I understood it," Fíli tells his mother the first time they talk about Kíli's choice of lover, "I just got tired of arguing with him about it."

**iv. Erratic**

The Erebor of old had been a place of order, of carefully orchestrated movements and meetings; now, with only thirteen Dwarves, an Elf and a Halfling filling it's halls, it is surprisingly inconsistent.

**v. Loved**

Dwarves are gruff by nature, they show their affection in little ways: the brush of a hand, touching shoulders as they sit, the bestowing of pet names. "Reckless," Dís often calls Kíli, and it takes Tauriel a long time to realize that it isn't just an observation, but a term of endearment.

**vi. Soft**

Tauriel's hands are pale and smooth where his are rough and calloused, and Kíli can't help but wonder if the rest of her body is the same.

**vii. Hold**

Little fingers form a firm grip on one of the braids hanging down in front of his ear, eyes the shade of emeralds blink slowly once, twice, before they come to focus on his, and half-Elven or not, Thorin Oakenshield knows that he will move mountains for this child.

**viii. Shackles**

Though he dropped it down an abandoned mine shaft years before, there are days when Thorin still feels the pull of the Arkenstone where it rests deep within the mountain. (He has no idea that he is not the only one.)

**ix. Broken**

So much of Erebor is still scarred by the dragon, but Thorin takes comfort in the things that have not changed. The forges still burn. The masons delve ever deeper into the mountain. Children, including the son of his sister-son, still play the same games he once played amongst the ruins.

**x. Precious**

Children are rare and precious to both their people; it nearly breaks her heart to hear the healers tell her that the birth was difficult on her, that she nearly died in the process, that she will not be able to give him more sons or daughters.

**xi. Odds and Ends**

Every little thing he picks up has meaning. Helping his mother decide what to bring with her back to Erebor is a challenge that Kíli did not anticipate.

**xii. Tea**

They stop at Bag End on the way to Ered Luin, and again on the way back. Dís still has not really warmed to Tauriel, but it is difficult to hate anyone — even an Elf — over a plate of Bilbo Baggin's scones.

**xiii. Twisted**

Each braid is carefully made and arranged, and by the time he is finished her hair is studded with so many beads that she half expects to jingle when she moves.

**xiv. Echo**

The bow is still a strange weapon to many Dwarves. Whenever Kíli or Tauriel go to practice, in a cavernous hall once used for feast days but now given over to the guard, they always find themselves with at least a few spectators, watching silently and listening to the reverberating thwack of arrows striking the targets.

**xv. Sooth**

The first time that Thorin sees Fíli comforting a fallen Orodir (the lad took a tumble on the practice courts, nothing serious, Thorin suspects bruised pride more than actual pain), he can't help but feel that it's a shame the elder of his sister sons never found a lass for himself. He would have been a good father.

**xvi. Fight**

It isn't that they never argue. It's just that when they do, it's usually in languages the other doesn't understand fluently anyway.

**xvii. Naked**

The mountain is lonely, surrounded by empty plains slowly filling with enemy soldiers, but it is hard to feel vulnerable surrounded by so much grandeur.

**xviii. Push**

Bilbo is seventy eight years old when, over afternoon tea, Gandalf casually mentions the possibility of a to return to Erebor, a chance for Bilbo to visit his old friends, and to meet the new prince. They plan to leave in the fall, but something distracts the Wizard, and by the time he finally comes around again several years later, Bilbo has a young nephew of his own to look after.

**xix. Alive**

Thorin tells his sister a carefully edited version of their quest and the battle that followed. She doesn't need to know how close she came to loosing them all. At least, she doesn't need to hear it from him. Maybe Fíli or Kíli will be stupid enough to tell her that part of the story, and she can yell at them instead.

**xx. New**

The rebuilt throne features the filigreed image of a full-grown oak tree, and on the right arm rest (where it won't be seen by the general populace; it is for the king's eyes only) a single acorn.

**xxi. Born**

Fíli does not think that he has ever been prouder than he is in the moment when Kíli hands him his newborn son to hold. Proud for his brother, sure, but proud for his people, too. He and Kíli were born into exile; with this child, born in the safety of the Lonely Mountain, that ordeal finally seems to be over.

**xxii. Murmur**

She stopped listening to the whispers that follow her through the halls of Erebor long ago, and so it is Fíli who finally has to tell her that some of the rumors have gotten somewhat out of hand. "Heard someone swearing up and down that Thranduil banished you because you were putting spells on his other guardsmen," he tells her. "I think they're a bit afraid of you." Tauriel never bothers to correct them.

**xxiii. Devious**

Just because he has a child to look after does not mean he can't still pull the occasional prank himself.

**xxiv. Isolation**

Banishment should be more frightening, Tauriel thinks; but surrounded as she is by a merrily laughing Dwarves, a warm, crackling fire, and the delightful music of twin fiddles filling the cavernous space, it is hard to find it so.

**xxv. Starve**

Legolas isn't really used to change, and he tries to prepare himself for the fact that his friend of so many centuries will undoubtedly be different — pale and drawn, perhaps, from being underground so long, but that is not at all what he encounters. He never expected to see her like this, bright and vivacious and transformed physically too, her body grown round with child. It's almost too much to take in. Despite her happiness, he isn't sure if he likes it.

**xxvi. Machine**

Maybe he can only see it because he has to assist in the building and rebuilding, but the work that goes in to restoring the fortress city is just as beautiful as the result. Maybe if Thrór had seen more of the craftsmen and their halls, and less of the treasury, they would not have lost the mountain in the first place.

**xxvii. Winter**

Winter is her favorite season. She doesn't understand why Kíli doesn't like it until she sees him sink into the thick snow.

**xxviii. Ignore**

"Adad. Say 'adad.'"

"Ada."

"Ada_d_."

"Ada."

"I think you're doing this on purpose. Go on. 'Adad.'"

"Ada."

This goes back and forth for some time until Kíli simply gives up. Language barriers, he thinks. His son is picking up Elvish faster than Khuzdul. He's never going to hear the end of this.

**xxix. Color**

"Red," Tauriel says, indicating her hair color.

"Copper," her three year old son helpfully replies.

Language barriers, she thinks, and wonders if they will ever see things the same.

**xxx. Grace**

In a moonlit clearing in the forest, Orodir Half-Elven stands before the King of the Greenwood, the Lord of Rivendell, and the Lady of Lorien herself, and chooses a mortal life. Thranduil frowns, Lord Elrond remains expressionless (he alone understands that, in Orodir's position, there can be no right answer) and the Lady smiles.

"Then go, Orodir Heroesson," she says, her voice a whisper on the warm summer breeze, "and may the light of the Valar be with you all the days you walk this Earth."


End file.
